Hump, my hump, my Wednesday working hump

so I went to work again.
I cried again.
It rained some more.
Next!
*****
So tonight’s fresh hell involved Chef telling me that his visit to the dressings clinic today did not come with good news.
It’s not healing.
I mean, it was, then they changed the dressing and it stopped getting better, so now they’ve gone back to the original dressing and he has to see a plastic surgeon next week.
It appears it may need surgery.
Which will involve a skin graft.
It was around this time my head exploded.
Or blood started pouring from my ears.
I forget.
And while I am wondering how well a skin graft will take in an area where a small cut wouldn’t heal because of poor circulation and subsequently ulcerated and exploded but you know, I guess that’s why the person we’re seeing is called a plastic surgeon while I am called a drama queen.
*****
I do hope that my fellow Australians have been doing their bit and paying attention to this:


My initial thoughts:
– not enough skanky hoes
– plenty of hip hop boys with cooties
– not enough tears
– not enough footage of the crap dancers
– a tantalising smattering of chunky-thigh dancers
– disappointing lack of jazz hands
– devastating leaving-me-hollow-on-the-inside absence of nude-coloured body-stockings.
– wonderful jazz hand movement by the crazy hair judge to tell the punter sound guy to kill the music
– who is that woman who thinks she’s Twiggy off ANTM
– a boring number of ‘I’m doing it for my son/daughter/mum/dad’